


like to the lark at break of day

by blackkat



Series: hawks 'verse [5]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25232797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: There's a high schooler sitting outside the university gates.
Relationships: Savage Opress/Waxer (Star Wars), Waxer & Feral (Star Wars)
Series: hawks 'verse [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825195
Comments: 28
Kudos: 647





	like to the lark at break of day

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: Do you have anything for the Waxer/Savage ship in H&H? May I suggest Savage asking him to look after his teenaged little brothers while he finishes his research or sth? Or Waxer stumbling upon a harassed, at the end of his rope Savage and deciding to intervene? (could possibly include sending the guy to bed and conspiring with the brothers in question)

There's a high schooler sitting outside the university gates.

Waxer pauses on the sidewalk, caught in the middle of digging for his keys, bagel hanging out of his mouth, headphones sliding down his neck. There's a bite to the early spring air, and the kid isn't wearing a jacket, just a thin sweatshirt with the logo of a local high school on the chest. He’s hunkered down into it, hood pulled up over his head, hands hidden in his sleeves. The bag at his feet is battered, patched in a way that’s less fashion and more necessity, and he looks—upset. Worried and angry and frustrated, tired and a little scared.

It’s a look that makes Waxer’s heart turn over in his chest a bit, and he glances up and down the street, but no one else seems to be paying any attention to the boy. There aren’t a lot of people out this late in the evening, and there’s rain threatening, so most people who _are_ out are moving quickly, headed for shelter.

There's no way that thin hoodie is going to be any sort of protection from a rainstorm, and Waxer reaches for his umbrella without hesitation. He doesn’t have a spare, but—that’s fine. His jacket is thick, and he can bike to Kix's apartment and wait out the weather there.

Quickly, Waxer swallows the last few bites of his bagel, then wipes the crumbs from his mouth and makes for the kid. The wind is picking up, and he tugs his coat more tightly around himself, then takes a breath and holds out his umbrella.

“Here,” he says. “You’re going to need it in a few minutes.”

The boy startles, jerking back and almost overbalancing where he’s perched on the low wall. Waxer takes a step forward in alarm, but before he can grab the kid, he’s scrambling upright again, eyes wide.

“Sorry!” he says quickly, and there's an accent to it Waxer recognizes. “I know I'm not supposed to loiter, but I'm waiting for my brother, he’s a student here—”

Quickly, Waxer raises his hands. “No, no,” he says, and holds up the umbrella. “I don’t care if you're sitting here, I just thought you might get wet.”

For a long moment, the boy just blinks at him. He looks from Waxer’s face to the umbrella and back to Waxer, and then his expression screws up like he’s about to cry.

“Oh,” he says, voice wobbly. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

He can't be more than a high school freshman, Waxer thinks, and there's that twist in his chest again. Tup is about his age, probably. There's no possible way Waxer can just _leave_ when he’s upset like this, _alone_ like this.

Carefully, deliberately, Waxer takes a step to the side, then sinks down on the wall beside him, enough space between them that he won't crowd the kid. “Did someone give you trouble about waiting here?” he asks in concern.

The boy hesitates, then nods quickly. “One of the security guards said I couldn’t,” he says. “That I had to go to the bus stop. But my brother always leaves through this gate and I don’t want to miss him—”

Waxer grimaces. “How about I wait with you?” he offers. “I pay tuition, they can't kick me off campus just for sitting on a wall. Or you, if you're my guest.”

Relief flickers over the boy’s face, followed by doubt. “I—are you sure? I don’t know how long it will be.”

“I don’t mind,” Waxer says firmly, and smiles at him. “What time does your brother’s class finish? Do you know?”

Swallowing, the boy shakes his head. “I _thought_ it ended two hours ago,” he says miserably. “But I haven’t seen him. He’s parked in the lot, so he _has_ to come this way if he’s going to get his car, but…I don’t know where he is.”

Oh, Waxer thinks. No wonder he’s upset. It’s a cold, grey, miserable day to be waiting for so long, especially with a security guard trying to chase him off. “Do you want to use my phone to call him?” he asks.

The boy pulls a face. “He broke his last week, and he hasn’t had the money to replace it,” he says, the edge of distress in his voice rising as he talks. “He borrows mine or Maul’s when he’s at home, and he’s _never_ normally late at _all_.”

“Hey,” Waxer says, reaching out before he can help himself, and he touches the boy’s elbow gently, then remembers himself and pulls back to give him space. “I’m sure he’s fine, he probably went to the library and lost track of time, or needed to use the computer labs—”

With a bitten-off sound of worry and fear and anger, the boy jerks. He turns, and a moment later he hits Waxer in the chest, slumped into him, arms wrapped tight around his torso.

Waxer blinks down at him for a second, caught off guard, and then smiles ruefully. Just like Tup, keeping everything bottled up, he thinks, and wraps his arms around the kid in return.

“It really will be okay,” he says gently. “It probably feels like the worst-case scenario right now, but I bet there’s a perfectly normal explanation. Just hang in there, okay?”

“Sorry,” the kid says, muffled, but he doesn’t let go. Leans into Waxer instead, slumped and miserable, and Waxer feels the first cold touch of raindrops on his head and discretely shakes the umbrella open, raising it above them. “I'm—sorry.”

“You're fine,” Waxer says soothingly, and when he lifts his head, he gives the kid a smile. “I'm Waxer.”

“Feral,” the kid says, a little shyly, and glances up at the umbrella as a few more raindrops splatter it. His expression twists with dismay, but before he can fall back into his upset Waxer bumps their shoulders together lightly.

“Nice to meet you, Feral,” he says. “You're from Dathomir, right?”

Quickly, Feral nods. “My brother got a scholarship to come and finish his degrees,” he says, “and he brought me and Maul, too, because the schools here are better.”

It’s possible that Waxer’s stomach does something acrobatic and swoopy, at those words. He freezes, hardly able to breathe, and—what are the odds? But also—what are the odds that there are two exchange students from Dathomir, both with two younger brothers, both working towards more than one degree?

“Savage?” he asks, and tries not to sound too pathetic. “You're Savage Opress’s little brother?”

Feral’s head jerks up, and he looks relieved. “You know him?”

Quickly, Waxer shakes his head, raising a hand. “Not personally! I was the TA in his Intro to Psych class last semester.”

“Oh.” Feral blinks at him for a moment, then ducks his head, grinning. “He _hated_ that class.”

Waxer pulls a face, and refuses to acknowledge how his heart drops a little, hearing that. “He’s an engineering and _philosophy_ student, he doesn’t get to hate psychology,” he says, and Feral laughs a little.

“He didn’t like the teacher much,” he says apologetically. “And he only took the class because it was required.”

“I guess no one’s perfect,” Waxer says, and means it maybe a little more than he should. But—Savage is smart and sharp and _clever_ , and he clearly cares about his brothers, and Waxer’s seen how hard he works to keep his high grades. _And_ he’s tall and handsome and built like a tree Waxer has incredibly guilty fantasies about climbing.

It makes Feral laugh again, though, and he kicks his heels against the wall as the rain starts coming down harder. “Is that what you're studying?” he asks. “Psychology?”

“Childhood psychology,” Waxer confirms, smiling at him. “I want to be a therapist. What about you? What do you like to study?”

“I don’t know,” Feral confesses. “I like engineering, like Savage, but I like astronomy too.” He pulls a face. “I don’t want to do two degrees, though. Savage doesn’t even sleep sometimes, he has so much to do.”

“It’s an impressive amount to do,” Waxer agrees. Hesitates, and then asks, “You have another brother, right? Maybe he knows where Savage is?”

Feral hunches in on himself, features twisting into a scowl. “Maul was supposed to drive me home after school,” he says. “But he skipped the last half of the day and he won't answer his phone. We live all the way out at the edge of town, and there's no bus that goes that far, so I was hoping Savage could drive me home, but…”

But now he can't find Savage, either. Waxer considers Feral for a moment, then asks, “Do you want me to take you home? I have my bike, and we can take the bus to the closest stop and go from there.”

Feral considers that for a moment, then shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says miserably. “I should wait for Savage. His car’s here, so he _has_ to be here, right?”

“Right.” Waxer smiles at him, bumping their shoulders together again. Subtly, though, he slides his phone out of his pocket and pulls up Boil’s number. “So what part of astronomy do you like?”

Feral brightens a little, and as he starts talking, Waxer sends a quick, one-handed text to Boil.

_Still have class in the same building as Savage?_

It takes long enough to answer that Boil is probably neck-deep in studying, and the quiet chime comes as Feral is searching his phone for pictures of a comet he managed to take the other night. “Sorry, one sec,” Waxer murmurs, and checks the text.

_im not going to help you stalk him Waxer_

Waxer rolls his eyes. _I'm not stalking him. Have you seen him today?_

The pause this time is barely ten seconds. _yeah hes passed out on the bench out front_

Of course Boil wouldn’t bother to wake him up _in the rain_ , Waxer thinks, exasperated, and sends him three very disappointed frowny emojis so that he knows Waxer disapproves of his life choices.

Still, though. At the very least it’s an answer to what happened to Savage, and Waxer tucks his phone away, then glances up at Feral and says, “My brother says he saw Savage outside the Engineering building. I'm going to go get him, okay?”

Feral almost drops his phone. “He’s okay?” he asks intently. “He’s not hurt, right?”

Waxer gives him his most reassuring smile. “Not at all. He probably just lost track of time. You know how those gearheads are.”

Feral grins, almost bubbly with relief. “He’s always like that,” he agrees, and Waxer hands him the umbrella and pushes to his feet.

“Well, now you’ve got blackmail,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks, Waxer,” Feral says, and takes the umbrella. With a wave, Waxer picks up a jog, flashing his ID at the guard manning the gate as he slips through. Under other circumstances, he’d bring Feral with him, but—

If Savage is so exhausted that he fell asleep outside, in the cold, _hours_ ago, that’s probably not the kind of thing he wants his little brother to know. Waxer’s seen Alpha and Colt and Havoc and the others hide things like that, trying to keep it from the younger brothers, has seen Rex hide his nightmares and inability to be around people from Fives and Echo so that they won't worry. Savage might not be trying to do the same, but just in case he is, Waxer doesn’t want to ruin the façade.

The main Engineering building isn't too far from the south gate, thankfully, and Waxer’s had to bring Boil lunches or forgotten textbooks or his misplaced phone enough times that he knows the building well. The benches are mostly around the far side of the building, facing the rest of campus, and Waxer ducks under the dripping eaves, then raises a hand to shield his face from the rain as he emerges into the tree-lined walkway that runs up to the front doors. Set back beneath the trees are wrought-iron benches, artistic and uncomfortable, and in nice weather they're normally full, but right now only one is occupied.

Waxer slows as he approaches the huge, slumped form taking up most of the bench, feeling his heartbeat kick in his chest. Savage has the hood of his jacket pulled over his face, his head pillowed on his bookbag. The traditional tattoos that have always caught Waxer’s eye are completely hidden, and he’s curled up as best he can, spine twisted, fast asleep.

Swallowing, Waxer pauses beside Savage, just looking for a moment. There's a twist around his heart that’s sweet and painful, and he has to take a breath before he leans over and puts a hand on Savage’s shoulder.

“Savage?” he says softly, and shakes him gently. “Savage, Feral is waiting for you.”

There's a mutter, a groan. Savage curls in on himself a little more, and Waxer pauses, a little surprised not to get more of a reaction. Savage doesn’t seem tactile, and he’s always carefully aware of his surroundings. To be so deeply asleep…

With a frown, Waxer pushes his hood back a little and presses his palm to Savage’s forehead.

It’s not nearly the surprise it should be, to feel him burning up.

Waxer’s instinct, immediate and well-trained, is to call Kix. After that it’s to call an ambulance, which is basically the same as calling Kix. Then Waxer forces himself to take a breath, because the odds are Savage isn't sick enough for an ambulance, and won't thank Waxer for making such a fuss. Instead, he shakes him again, more firmly this time, and says, “Savage, wake up.”

There's another groan, but Savage’s almost-golden eyes slide open. It takes him a long, long moment to focus, but he finally blinks, turns his head, and looks at Waxer. Frowns, deeply, suspiciously, and pushes up.

“What do you want?” he asks, and then abruptly wavers like he’s going to fall over, even sitting down.

Quickly, gently, Waxer catches him, holding him up with a hand braced on his shoulder. “Sorry,” he says, “but your brother’s outside the gate, looking for you.”

Savage blinks at him, like he can't quite comprehend the words, and his frown hasn’t abated at all. “Maul is—?”

“Feral,” Waxer corrects, and hesitates. “Your fever feels really high. Do you want me to take you to the clinic?”

“Feral,” Savage repeats, like the words aren’t processing as fast as they should be. Then, suddenly, he stiffens, shoving to his feet. “ _Feral_ is outside? But it’s raining, he’ll get sick—”

Waxer catches him when he wavers again, and it takes _effort_. Savage has to be almost seven feet tall, and he’s all muscle. It makes Waxer feel tiny in comparison. “He’s not the only one,” he says, gentle rather than pointed. “Savage, you should go to the clinic.”

“No,” Savage says stubbornly. “It’s just a cold, I need—I have to take Feral home, what _time_ is it?”

“He’s okay,” Waxer soothes, and grabs Savage’s bag as he takes a few stumbling steps forward. Deliberately, he puts himself under Savage’s arm, and says, “You shouldn’t drive like this, even if you don’t want to see a doctor.”

Savage hesitates, and he looks down at Waxer like he’s finally registering his presence. “I can—I can call Maul,” he says. “He can drive.” Then he stops short and groans, pressing a hand over his face.

“Just give yourself a minute,” Waxer says, slipping a hand under his elbow to support him as much as he can. “You just woke up.”

Savage grimaces, but nods. “If Feral’s here,” he says, “he can't find Maul.” Hesitates, and then grimaces, rubbing at his shaved head, and says with an edge of despair, “I can—there are cabs—”

“I can drive you,” Waxer suggests, because if Savage is trying to save money, he likely doesn’t have any to spare for a cab. “If you trust me with your car.”

Savage squints at him. “You're—the TA from Psych,” he says after a moment. “Why…?”

Waxer shrugs. “Your brother seems like a good kid,” he says, which is only partially the truth, but still true enough. Feral is sweet. Waxer would help him just for that.

Savage stares at him for an endless heartbeat, then takes a breath. “He is,” he says gruffly. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Waxer keeps a careful hand under his elbow as they start moving again, steadying his slow steps, and asks, “Is there anything you need?” It’s almost the weekend, after all, and he doesn’t want Savage to have to make the trip all the way back across town to get something he forgot when he should technically be resting.

“My bag,” Savage says, a trace of alarm edging into his voice. Gently, Waxer bumps the bag against his hip, and he closes his mouth, then smiles ruefully.

“Sorry,” he says gruffly, closing his eyes. “I'm…groggy.”

“You're sick,” Waxer says simply. “Keys?”

“Outside pocket.” Savage keeps his eyes closed, a grimace on his face, and Waxer’s familiar with that expression from all the times various brothers have ended up with concussions.

“Vertigo?” he asks, concerned, and wonders if he should call Kix after all. “Have you been drinking any water? Or eating?”

Savage’s long pause is answer enough.

“All right,” Waxer says, not wanting to push. As the gate comes into view, he fishes out Savage’s keys, considers pulling Savage’s arm over his shoulder for about three seconds before he dismisses the idea; Savage is tall enough to make it more like offering him an armrest than support, and Waxer has _some_ dignity. Maybe.

He’ll have to stop and get Savage something easy to eat, though, and a few sports drinks. Maybe soup, or the ingredients for real chicken soup, if Savage won't think Waxer is a creep for wanting to invade his kitchen.

Savage will probably think he’s a creep, Waxer thinks, resigned. Boil is going to get _so much_ mileage out of this incident.

When they stumble out of the gate, there's an instant cry, and a moment later Feral is practically stuck to Savage’s other side, angling the umbrella over him. “ _Savage_. Are you okay? What happened?”

Savage huffs. “Just a cold, Feral,” he says, and drapes his free arm over Feral’s shoulders, squeezing gently. Waxer has to look away, hiding a smile; they're cute, and it’s obvious how much Savage loves his brother.

“You're _staggering_ ,” Feral says, caught between worried and unimpressed. “Maul won't turn his phone on, but I can try to call him—”

Savage waves a hand. “The TA’s going to drive us,” he mutters, and Waxer squashes the little twinge at the fact that Savage apparently has no idea who he is outside of that. It’s logical; Waxer helped teach one class he was in a full semester ago, and Savage never came to office hours or interacted beyond submitting assignments and answering questions. And it’s not like Waxer stands out nearly as much as Savage does, especially since he shares a face with practically all of the many Fett offspring Jango has running around.

Still, it hurts a little. Waxer _knows_ his crush is wholly one-sided and that he’s a non-entity in Savage’s world, that Savage has a whole host of concerns that are more important already taking up his time. That’s why he hasn’t asked him out before this. That’s why he _won't_.

He swallows, smiles. Aims it at Feral, and asks, “Can you show me which car is yours? And—navigate for me, probably, sorry—”

“It’s fine!” Feral says quickly, and steers Savage towards the crosswalk. “Thank you for helping.”

“Of course,” Waxer says firmly. “I'm not just going to _leave_ you here.”

Feral’s smile is quick and shy. “I found my comet picture,” he offers. “If you still want to see it.”

“Need to find you a telescope,” Savage mutters, but his eyes are mostly closed and he seems to be concentrating on not falling over.

“I’d love to,” Waxer says honestly, and helps Feral guide Savage across the quiet street.


End file.
